


What Did You Really Expect?

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Funny, Gen, Gym bag, Pranks and Practical Jokes, gymbaglock, laughs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 14:19:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: Sherlock gets himself in quite the predicament and doesn't think it's nearly as funny as John does.Written for the challenge presented by May-Shepard on Tumblr!





	What Did You Really Expect?

John sits alone in 221B, enjoying the relative silence. Despite the busy London street below and the gentle hum of cars zipping by, the flat is quiet. Somewhere below, Mrs. Hudson takes a nap. And somewhere else, Sherlock does whatever it is Sherlock does when he’s not home.

Enjoying the morning paper, a plate of biscuits, and a cup of tea, John can hardly imagine a better Sunday morning. Of course, that’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy Sherlock’s company. Just that…well he doesn’t really make for very good company. Flipping contentedly to the comics, John smiles to himself. Even the sunshine seems to smile, sneaking in through the open window.

Of course, John Watson’s stories wouldn’t be so well known if they were boring, and he rarely has the luxury of a boring Sunday morning. This particular Sunday, it seems, is no different. A knock at the door startles him.

He realizes first that he didn’t hear footsteps. Normally, this means it’s Sherlock. But Sherlock wouldn’t knock. In fact, most people don’t knock at the door and none can ascend the stairs silently. Rolling his eyes with an aggravated snort, John rises to his feet.

“Hello, Mycroft,” he grumbles as he opens the door to reveal the _other_ Holmes.

“Please, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft responds, apparently out of breath. “I really don’t want it back.” At his feet is a bulky gym bag and he drops the strap as he turns. John stares at it for a moment, trying to imagine how Mycroft possibly got it up the stairs without bumping either it or himself into the steps.

“What is-? Mycroft?”

“Don’t make me ask again, Dr. Watson.” With the soft click of the front door, Mycroft is gone.

John stares at the bag for a moment, wondering whether he can trust Mycroft Holmes enough to bring it inside. Deciding it’s better to at least have it where he can see it, he picks up the strap tenderly. Toeing the side of the bag, he discovers it’s soft, and Sherlock’s various experiments come to mind. He wonders whether Mycroft would really support such behavior by providing… _material…_ but since that seems to be the case, he resolves to keep it as far away as possible.

He heaves hard on the strap but it’s far too heavy. Certainly he can lift it off the floor, but the strap’s length compared to his own height, combined with the weight of the bag’s contents, make it much easier to slide it. Clutching the strap firmly, he hauls the bag into the living room, grimacing at the _thud_ it makes coming over the threshold.

Depositing the bag near Sherlock’s chair and rolling his shoulders, John returns to the door and closes it, locking it firmly in case Mycroft decides to make another unannounced visit. Not that a lock would probably stop him. Settling back into his chair and taking a crunch of another biscuit, he returns to the comics and the peaceful silence of a private morning.

To his horror, he’s only made it through two comic strips when the bag _moves._ At first, he thinks it’s probably a trick of the light or a problem with his eyes. He considers his age and life experience and wonders at the fact that he’s gotten where he has without the need for spectacles. However, he can’t pretend he doesn’t see it when the bag moves again. This time, he can see it more clearly when it shifts, almost as if it’s rocking.

A mental image of a turtle caught on its back, trying desperately to right itself comes to mind and he shudders. Would Mycroft have provided _live_ specimens for Sherlock’s experimentation? He hesitates before drawing himself back to his feet. His old cane catches his eye and he grabs it out of the corner of the room, intending to make quite sure that whatever is in the bag either goes free or becomes as dead as it was meant to be.

Moving closer with hesitant steps, he rocks up on his toes and groans when the bag moves again. “No, alright, you listen,” he says, pointing the cane menacingly. “You are a bag. And you are not supposed to move. You’re going to stop that right now.”

To his surprise, it does. There’s a stiff anticipation to its stillness, as if it’s waiting for more directions or trying to listen for something far away. “Right,” he whispers to himself. “Right, no this is fine. We’re fine. It’s fine. Mycroft’s just dropped off a bag of…something. And it’s moving. That’s fine. Sherlock will be home soon and it’s fine. We’re fine. You’ve got this. We’ve got this. No, that’s not better. _I’ve_ got this.” He takes a settling breath and hesitates, trying to decide whether to unzip the bag and reveal its contents or ignore it until Sherlock returns home. Before he can decide, the bag moves again and a familiar sound rumbles out of it.

“Well of course you’re fine, John. What did you really expect?” Sherlock questions, his skepticism clear even without his face visible. “Do help me with the zipper, won’t you?”

John’s eyes are wide for a moment while he processes what’s happening, the terror of a talking, moving bag of corpses still melting off him. “You’re…in a bag? Sherlock?”

“No, the _specimens_ are talking to you. Yes, of course it’s me. Now get the zipper?”

His nostrils flare and his chest heaves. And then he laughs. “You bloody moron! Did you get stuck or did Mycroft stuff you in there?”

Sherlock clucks disapprovingly. “A bit of both, I should say. Is that really important right now?”

John laughs harder and tears stream down his cheeks. “You’ve got yourself in quite a situation,” he gasps between spurts of hysterics. “No, no! This is just the _bag-_ inning! It’s karma for having been such an awful dirt _bag_ all this time! Mrs. Hudson would love to see this, I should go get the old _bag_.”

“Yes, ha-ha, John, very funny. I do believe there would be a better time for you to exercise your rather poor sense of humor.” Sherlock’s voice, as flatly disgusted as his facial expression probably is, sends John into another flurry of giggles and he doubles over forward.

“The cat’s out of the _bag_ , Sherlock! How’re you feeling? Good or _bag_? Perhaps you’d like some tea? We have some _bags_ in the kitchen!”

“That’s not even- you’re not even making jokes now. You’re just using the word ‘bag’.”

“Is this the sort of plan _Gym_ Moriarty would’ve set up for you? He was a proper _bag_ guy, wasn’t he?”

“You know what, I don’t even want out anymore.”

John is still giggling when he finally releases the zipper, revealing a glaring Sherlock that somehow only increases his cackles. “Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock. This was great. Thank you. This is a good day.”

“I’m glad to have been of assistance,” Sherlock growls sarcastically, extricating himself with as much grace as he can muster. John sniggers as Sherlock stands and his full height suddenly makes the acrobatics seem even more impressive.

“That must’ve been quite the workout, good thing you had your gy-“

“Yes, I do believe I got the message,” Sherlock mutters, pushing past John and heading towards his room.

“Hey, I helped you didn’t I? _Bag_ gars can’t be choosers! Come on, Sherlock, don’t be such a dick _bag!_ ”

He waves a hand. “Got i- ‘dickbag’? You really are awful at this.”


End file.
